


Colors Bursting Bright

by ChocoChipBiscuit



Series: Punchy Fight Wives [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4, Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: F/F, Punchy Fight Wives, and Veronica absolutely hates Maxson's vision of the Brotherhood, plus Curie and Cait being friends is very important to me, settlement building as done by the companions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-06-02 00:20:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6542734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/pseuds/ChocoChipBiscuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Veronica travels to the Commonwealth to build a new life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Colors Bursting Bright

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on the [Fallout kink meme](http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/6855.html?thread=19047879#t19047879).
> 
> Many thanks to placentalmammal and ialpiriel for beta'ing and discussing bacon vs radstag as breakfast items in the post-apocalypse. :)

Veronica packed light for this long road east, but these are the things she carries:

One pink sweater, knitted by Lily and with a little bow on the front. When Veronica presses it to her cheek at night, she still catches a whiff of aloe and rubbing balm from those shaky hands. 

(Veronica would sit next to her, radio on low and talking, talking, talking. Endless blather, really, but Lily was nothing but patience as Veronica argued herself in and out of leaving. Lily would knit as Veronica adjusted the little space-heater, as Veronica flitted through the kitchen to make tea. Thick and milky for Lily, sugar-sweet for herself. And when Lily sipped her tea, aged eyes deceptively sharp over the chipped rim, she said, “You better not leave before I finish your sweater, dearie.”)

One thick stack of comics, thinner than when she started, as she sold or bartered issues of La Fantoma and Grognak to help finance this journey. The only ones she still has are Usagi Yojimbo, which she still thumbs through at night. Reread them so many times the words are inked behind her eyes, but still admires the fluidity of the lines and the boldness of the black and white.

(Tucked within the first issue: a crumpled sketch of herself, smiling. Clumsily smoothed straight, still parchment-fragile when she touches it. Paper’s been sprayed with some kind of fixative so the graphite won’t smear. No signature, because Elijah took away all the words they ever could have shared.)

One now-empty bottle from the test run of Tejada Limón. She never rinsed the bottle, still opens it sometimes to sniff the sticky remnants of artificial lime and sugar.

(“It’s lime, not novelty Abraxo,” Raul had said in exasperation, rolling his eyes and cracking his back as he stretched his arms in front of him. Crack-crack-crack of joints, like green wood popping. And it finally hit Veronica that Raul’s age wasn’t simply another of his self-deprecating jokes. “And it’s all gonna be in Spanish. Teach some of you a little culture.”)

And of course, Cass’ whiskey flask. Tribal rose etched on it, because Cass told Veronica she’s _family_ and family counts.

(Chosen family, family of blood and sweat and laughter and long nights under the stars telling progressively drunker stories, dipping their toes in Lake Mead and hollering as Boone stepped on a cactus and Arcade plucked the spines from his toes while Veronica held the light steady and Cass just laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

Closer than the family forged of steel and cages and underground secrets.)

She doesn’t carry, but wears the last gifts-- one pair of comfortable grey socks, thick-knit and warm, keeping her toes toasty on the coldest nights. Had the unfortunate alcohol-drench of some cologne that Boone swore the ladies loved. And perhaps the ladies-- or at least Carla-- had loved it once, but the better part of a decade of the bottle in the Mojave heat and swaddled at the bottom of Boone’s backpack or crammed in his sock drawer has made it go unfortunately _off_. But by now it’s just the warm unwashed smell of worn clothing.

And around her neck, a miniature compass on a chain.

(“So you can always find the way home,” Arcade had said. Mush-mouthed, hands sharp and knuckles jutting. Three long silver hairs on his jaw, survivors from his morning shave and catching in the morning light. He snorted and slapped Veronica’s shoulder when she accused him of growing sentimental in his old age.)

Misses her family. It’s been a long road east-- trekked through the crumbling remnants of Legion territory, watched the earth change from dry grit and sand to dry grit and shattered asphalt and cracked soil, traded news and bits of repair-work for safe nights and passage in tribal lands. Even did little bits of courier work, as long as the road wound her eastward.

(“All this time tagging after the courier and now _you’re_ playing mailman? Well, shit. Just don’t get any glorified robot armies in your head too,” she imagines Cass snorting.)

But now, staring at that giant airship, her heart sinks down somewhere between her kidneys. Clenches Cass flask, but can’t drink enough to drown the dawning horror. Mouth gaping so wide that a bloatfly nearly flies right down her gullet before she punches it to goo.

Far cry from hiding in a hole in the ground, knowing full well that power armor and lasers are only so good for so long against an organized group of Wastelanders with rifles and a grudge. She’d heard things about the Lyons’ faction, but had been expecting heroes. And this doesn’t match the rumors she heard of the rogue chapter, no, not at all. Brotherhood as an _army_ , a conquering force. No saviors here.

Once caught up on the Prydwen, she weighs her options.

Maxson-- and hell, she’d call it ‘nepotism’ if the Elder weren’t the last Maxson of the line-- is more of a warmonger than she’d expected. Hard-line to the Code, and any of the reforms made by the previous Elder obviously didn’t stick. She suspects some hardball behind the scenes, maybe some arranged ‘accidents’ to leave this young gloryhound in charge.

(Doesn’t think it’s Maxson himself; not the kind of ruthless she’d expect from a kid. That facial scruff’s gotta be some kind of front, some way of making himself look older than he really is.)

Sad, really. Reminds her of some of the Legion boys all grown up. Taught to see the world in black and white, raised to be the perfect tin soldier.

(Almost thought ‘cog in the war machine,’ except machines grind to a halt when missing parts.)

The decision’s even easier than leaving Hidden Valley. Brotherhood obviously doesn’t need one more Scribe, let alone one of questionable loyalties. And she’s got no good memories with this chapter.

. . .

Veronica takes her time to look around County Crossing, not sure where to report in. The set-up’s not near as large as the NCR sharecroppers, but enough for self-sufficiency. Communal farming, trees heavy with mutfruit and rows of carrots set in neat rows. Even some commerce, judging from the trader with the heavily-laden brahmin. Turrets set up around the perimeter-- Minutemen a bit more diverse with their skillset than the Followers. Or at least more willing to apply them to not-entirely-pacifistic ends.

Especially since the activity of the day seems to be boxing lessons.

Shouts and gasps, a laugh woven into it-- none of the brittle-edge of a brawl, but rounded. Warm, sunshine-y even. The kind of laugh that sparks and rattles in the dark. Veronica follows the noise to find a line of settlers paired off with one another, a red-haired woman with a purple-green bruise on one cheek marching down the line. Shouts, and Veronica’s never heard that accent outside of old holos but recognizes it as… Irish, maybe?

“Nothing fancy! Just punch, block. Put your whole body into it! Drive from the hip,” she bellows. Arms thick with muscle, a ridge of old scar along one massive bicep.

Veronica’s heart does a funny little flip in her throat. Fizzes in her tummy like she downed an entire case of Nuka Cola.

“Oy, you joining us for practice or just gawking?” the woman hollers.

Veronica shoves her hood back, ruffles her hair with one hand. Sure it’s sticking up in the back, making her look like some baby-faced duckling. “Gawking! But happy to join, if you’ll have me. I just followed the signal…”

“Ah, a new settler!” another woman exclaims, clasping her hands together with delight. Grey eyes sparkling, nails white and immaculate. (Veronica resists the urge to shove her own grimy mitts into her pockets.) And another accent from an old holo, though not Irish. French? “It is a pleasure to meet you. I can orient you if you so wish, though if you would rather participate in the militia training…”

“Hey, always happy to learn something new,” says Veronica, shrugging off her pack and glancing down the line. “No partner though.”

“I’ll square off with you. Just punch and block drills today,” the glorious redhead says. Fists raised, stance loose. A brawler’s position. “You fought much before?”

“A bit,” Veronica fibs. Wants to impress. Doesn’t want to draw too much attention to where she learned.

“Easy, then.” She chuckles, mouth split in a teeth-baring grin. “My name’s Cait, and now I’m gonna punch you.”

And Cait-- and this wonderful, bursting woman with freckles that dance like stars-- demonstrates a basic punch, how to block. Upper block, lower block, how to bar and push aside with her forearm. Nothing new, really. Kind of muscle memory that’s been beaten into Veronica like tempered steel.

No sense in showing up the teacher, so Veronica plays along. Slides in, out. Close enough to smell the salt and warm-leather off the other woman. Cait’s got gorgeous eyes, shimmering like distant trees under a summer storm. And the blocks are mechanical, easy. Rhythm like clockwork.

Realizes too late that Cait’s broken the pattern, jumping back as Cait springs up with a hook like lightning. Leaves her skin electric in its wake.

“Wakey wakey. You’re bored, ain’tcha?” Cait growls. Curls her lips, ruddied like wine. Veronica wants to lick the color from her mouth. “C’mon at me then.”

“I just spaced out,” Veronica blurts, palms flat and hands raised.

“Bullshit. You’ve done this before. Don’t care if you’re merc or ex-raider, if you want to join up with the Minutemen we gotta know how to use you. General’s orders,” Cait says. Grinning ear to ear, eyeteeth glinting sharp. “‘Sides, been too long since I’ve had a good round.”

“Mademoiselle Cait, if she does not wish to--” the French-accented woman begins, but Cait’s already swinging and Veronica reacts.

High punch-- Cait was making this easy on her, smirking as Veronica sweeps her forearm up in an outer block. Leaves her head open, ducks Cait’s palm-strike and kicks her foot out, hoping to trip the other woman back. But Cait reacts by lifting her knee and if this were a real fight Veronica’s pretty sure Cait’d be stomping her kneecap and Veronica’d be hobbling off crying for a medic, but instead Cait lashes out with the back of her hand. A quick tap, and Veronica realizes too late it was a feint before Cait smashes her knuckles into the side of Veronica’s face.

Veronica falls back, more shock than pain. Lands on her ass in an ignominious cloud of dust.

“Mademoiselle Cait, this is why we do not--!”

“This is why we do it here so raiders and Gunners don’t kick our asses in the field,” Cait snorts. Squats, holds her hand out. “You alright?”

Veronica blinks, vision filmy. Swimming in and out of focus, Cait’s hair caught in an orange halo, but only takes one tentative stab with her palm to find Cait’s hand. “Yeah, just fine.”

More than fine. Figures it’s love at first punch.

. . .

Falling into a new routine at the settlement provides a welcome sense of order, helps color in the missing pieces of her life. Because maybe that’s how memory works-- smudges out the bunker, the gray nightmares of everything leading up to the second Battle of the Dam, the way the world tore and bled. The rust of the Sierra Madre and Christine’s last goodbye, the green echo of regret as Christine turned back to the terminal with keys clicking and Veronica trudged back into the Ghost-filled streets and walked into the empty desert and screamed beneath the half-chewed yellow moon--

She bleeds out the memories, let them blur into one another like watercolors.

So on her second day in the settlement, she gets out of bed, picks up a wrench, and starts building a life.

She fusses with the generator, takes the community toolbox and goes elbows-deep into the machinery. Uses a lighter for parts, jury-rigging it to some semblance of functionality and cheerful sputtering all over the bright blue day. Helps clear the wrecked hulls of long-abandoned cars, breaks them down for scrap. Buries herself in the manual labor of uprooting stumps, sweat sticking a line down her back and yellow dust in her nostrils. Grey socks going grayer and more brown within her boots, but that’s okay. Just a sign of use. Compass heavy against her chest, for all that she never wanders out of sight of the settlement.

There’s a peace to it-- certainty more firm than the Codex. Weighed down by the heft of the hammer in her hand, the lovely juddering impact as she strikes a nail, laughs with the rest of the work crew while putting up a new house. A more pleasant weight than steel rules and inflexibility. Sawdust on the back of her throat, a comfortable grit on the back of her neck. Cool air beneath the bright sun, very texture of the breeze so unlike the Mojave.

She works next on the turrets, gets schematics from Curie and starts constructing more generators far from the houses-- far enough they won’t shatter the peace of the indigo nights here in the Commonwealth.

. . .

Veronica has her gifts and memories to warm her heart, her hands. Bundles herself up in Lily’s sweater like an enormous hug when it gets too cold. But it’s the little things that twist the road through her heart.

Like drinking cola-- they have all sorts of new flavors here, like sour cherry and glowing Quantum in nifty novelty bottles. Shiny and bright, light bouncing brown and gold and blue off the glass as she raises it to her lips, bubbles tickling her nose. Acid-sweet and fizzy, but she misses the herbal finish of sarsaparilla.

Or gathering flowers-- no familiar broc flower or xander root, but she gathers armfuls of blue hubflowers, blue blue blue as a winter sky and the sharp edge of a tear, because this cold and rainy east coast is _nothing_ like the orange heat of the desert, with its sunsets that stain the world red and yellow like yolk dripping across the sands. The wet-crushed freshness of the flowers sits thick in her lungs, and Veronica gulps down the sudden tears, the raw red pain of it like every goodbye rolled in one drunk cry.

“Hey. You okay there?” Cait asks, squatting beside Veronica. Not quite flat-footed, one arm in front of her and fingers pressing the dirt for balance. Knees patched, arms bare, old trackmarks visible up her forearm-- the sun behind her, blazing her hair. A stark and dizzying glory, rugged as the cliffs of Red Rock Canyon.

(And even that is bitter comfort-- the desert’s harsh, yes, but there is beauty in it. There is life in it. There is hope in it, as when the wind sings prayer across a rain-washed sky.)

“I just really miss sarsaparilla,” Veronica hedges. Manages a watery smile, forcing a giggle.

Cait snorts, scratching her thigh with a grimy fingernail. Flicks her eyes in something like sympathy, even with her mouth twisted down. “Well. We’re all adjusting.” Pats Veronica, a heavy thump that’s more like a slap. Because for all Cait’s careless words, the ones like kicked pebbles, there’s no derision.

Leaves Veronica stinging and breathless, no more tears.

. . .

Veronica twists the dial, fiddling for radio stations at the workshop. Music makes the day go faster, gives something she can hum and taste off the back of her tongue, send rhythm through her bones.

Classical’s nice, a bit boring; like the world sketched black and white with shades of gray. Catchier stuff from Diamond City, more life and color, but skipping over missing channels hits something dull in her chest. Like poking her tongue at a missing tooth, probing the socket and only recognizing presence through absence.

“Come on, you’ve heard every channel three times by now,” Cait grumbles. “Pick one and have it done. And if you do that classical shit, my boot’s up your arse.” Scratches her hip, yawning hugely and not bothering to cover her mouth.

“You never heard Jingle Jangle? What about Heartaches by the Number? Johnny Guitar?”

Each shake of Cait’s head only makes Veronica more persistent, singing off-key renditions of the most famous lines-- and with a sinking feeling that even if Cait had _heard_ the songs she wouldn’t recognize it through Veronica’s skittering notes-- and she finally blows her lips, sputtering a raspberry at the workbench. “I can’t believe you don’t know any of the songs.”

Cait snorts, cocks her head and grins. “Means you get a chance to learn something new, right?”

. . .

“Time for something new!” Cait announces, thumping a rattling satchel on the workbench. Pulls out an ammo box, shells glittering in the yellow light filtering through the open doors. “Bloodbugs keep spawning, reckon it’s time to go clear out the nest. Then some more of your techy-repair shit, set up a pump. Curie says we gotta get rid of that stagnant water if we’re gonna keep ‘em from breeding.”

“So should I pack a gun or a toolbox?” Veronica asks. Hand poised between the tools already arrayed on the workshop wall, or the 10mm pistol at her hip.

Cait grins, kicking her heel against the floor. Thumbs slung through her belt, hair falling over one eye. “Gun for now. Tools for later.”

Bloodbugs, jittery as they are, still don’t skitter as much as cazadores. They fall nice and easy when Veronica clips their wings. Caught them gathered around a grey and shriveled brahmin husk. Air fetid and sour with rads, queasy-thick like she could cut it into slabs. Still hits her with a nasty shock when one of the bloodbugs spits up pinkish-brown _stuff_ that stings and burns across her ear, spatters her cheek. Just missed her eye because she ducked aside in time.

Cait gets the rest with a rapid _click-boom_ of her shotgun. Then stands in front of Veronica, tilts her head back and pours half a bottle of water over her face to clean it out. Lets it drip over her forehead, trickle down her eyes and then her chin. Blots dry with a crumpled blue rag, holds up fingers and makes Veronica count. Nods when Veronica correctly identifies “two.”

“Just grab some of their blood sacs ‘n shit, Curie’s got some kind of science jibber-jabber for ‘em,” Cait grunts, slapping her wet palms against her pants.

Veronica nods, harvesting parts and eyeing the shallow swamp. “I think you just don’t want to get your boots wet.”

Cait smirks. “Got it in one, darlin’.”

. . .

“Whatcha reading?” Cait asks from her flat-footed squat.

Veronica starts, shutting her comic as if caught reading in class again-- because even years and miles away, some habits die harder than the people who made them. Would slam it if there were more heft to it, but even startled, doesn’t want to rip the pages. “Um. A comic?”

Cait rolls her eyes and snorts.

Veronica’s gotten very good at reading these signals-- there’s the eyeroll with brows knit together and the mouth turned down, a kind of code orange she’s had enough and that it’s Curie’s turn to take over negotiations as they run nice-one mean-one on some wandering trader. And there’s the one where her shoulders shake, feeble attempt at discipline sizzling away like water from a hot pan, holding her arms in with knuckles white as the laugh struggles beneath her ribs, like when six-year-old Julie tried painting the new doghouse and ended up leaving blue handprints all along the side of the workshop. Then there’s the one with the guffaw under the scowl, pinned beneath the exaggerated bite of her tongue.

Like now.

“Anyone with a working eyeball can see _that_ ,” Cait says. Cocks her head and juts her chin. “I used to like ‘em. Just don’t recognize that one.”

“Yeah-- I’ve had a hard time finding issues. This one’s about a bunny samurai going through prewar-- like _really_ prewar, waaaay back Japan. Not that there’s not a lot of other stuff going on! There’s a bounty hunting rhino and a fox lady and-- and-- you know what, it might make more sense if you just read it. I’ve got the first issue in my room, if you want!” Veronica blurts, hands flying with excitement. Like she’s pulling color from the air, ready to splash down and illustrate all her favorites of the black and white comics.

Cait blinks, and _this_ is a new expression-- brows up, jaw just slightly slack before Cait catches herself, shutting her mouth so hard her teeth click. Shoulders twitching up, boxing herself in before forcing her fists loose. “Yeah. If you don’t mind sharing.”

Veronica bustles through her tiny kitchen, makes two cups of weak mint tea and sits on the opposite side of the couch from Cait. Passes the first issue to Cait and sucks her teeth, breath shattering her lungs as Cait opens the comic to find Christine’s sketch.

Cait stays silent. Lips pressed, averts her eyes like blasphemy. And maybe it is, some fumbling awareness of the empty spaces left behind. But she passes the sketch to Veronica and Veronica runs it back to her room, lets the words hang unsaid.

They devour their way through the tea and the entire stack of comics, Veronica continuing to read ahead and passing issues to Cait. Their feet touch occasionally, toes warm through layers of socks as Veronica props her comics against her knees.

They fall asleep like that, Cait snoring with her mouth open, drooling down one cheek as she sprawls back with an arm over her belly, the other trailing on the floor. Veronica yawns, stretches her arms overhead and toes out, jostling Cait’s foot--

And like that Cait jerks herself awake, pulls a knife from her belt and stops with it halfway out, the naked blade singing white heat in the early light.

“Shit,” Cait grunts. Short chuckle without apology, sheathing the knife again. Yawns hugely, scratching under her armpits and twisting her legs off the couch. “Didn’t mean to crash here. Want breakfast?”

Not that Cait’s cooking, no-- Veronica trails along for Cait’s morning prowl to Curie’s clinic. The good doctor leaves her door unlocked at all hours as far as Veronica can tell, whether it’s to pull a splinter from a child’s hand or a late-night reading session at her desk, poring through stacks of journals.

Though Cait’s expected, judging from the way Curie smiles at them. That smile broadens as she spots Veronica. “I am pleased to have your company. Come, let us have coffee.”

And even if Cait grumbles about the bland good-for-youness of boiled grain with mutfruit, she sets her elbows on the table and digs in. Scrapes her bowl clean and washes dishes side-by-side with Veronica, bumping shoulders.

This becomes another part of Veronica’s routine, sweet and easy as the sunrise. Curie always makes enough to share, but Veronica starts bringing mirelurk eggs and diced molerat, fresh milk and other things that make Cait light up and chuckle, “Finally! Not all this plant stuff!” Curie continues pouring fruit and grain on Cait’s plate anyway. And when Cait changes the radio from the soft strains of the classical station to Diamond City Radio, Curie simple flicks it back. This exchange happens at least three times during breakfast-- at least once during prep, Cait sneaking away from slicing tatos to fiddle with the knob, then during the actual meal as Curie sets the table, and once more during clean-up.

Coffee is the one breakfast item both Curie and Cait agree on. They drink it black, Curie claiming that cream and sugar only dilute the complexity of flavor while Cait mumbles that it dilutes the “get up and go.”

Either way, it tastes like black and bitter mud to Veronica unless she adds enough milk to lighten it, faintly brown like the early dawn of a grey day. Rest of her plate’s a palette, purple lobes of mutfruit and the streaky yellow yolk of cracked egg, plus red and white slices of apple and brown-pink of seared radstag. Even the razorgrain meal’s enriched, enlivened with golden drips of honey and a sprinkle of white cinnamon.

But the brightest part of breakfast is Cait’s laughter. Her freckles dance constellations as she smirks, steals sausage from Curie’s plate and drains the dregs from the coffee pot.

. . .

“Where are you from?” Veronica asks, sprawled on her back with grass tickling between her shoulderblades. Knuckles sore from another round of sparring, jaw purpling but little worse for the wear. Tip of her nose sunburn-pink, grateful Cait can’t spot it from her own sprawl. Heads side by side, bodies angled in opposite directions.

“Spent the last couple years at the Combat Zone,” Cait says, easy as blowing smoke. And Veronica doesn’t even have to turn to hear the smirk zippered through Cait’s voice. “If you’re asking about me voice, parents crossed the fucking ocean ‘afore I was born. Most of their ship’s scattered now, but I picked up the accent.”

Veronica laughs, shutting her eyes against the warm and dazzling sun. Salt and sweat in her nostrils, warm leather and worn cloth. “Any idea where the rest of them went?”

Too late, wrong question. Veronica senses Cait’s weight bearing down, bracing herself into the earth. “Parents are dead. Think I have an uncle down in the Capital, but been so long I don’t even know his name.”

“I’m-- I’m sorry.” Words like dead stones, like toppled graves.

“Don’t be. Family’s a bitch.”

Veronica thinks of grey steel and dull hallways, the echo of boots down dark corridors. Even the reds and blues of the scribe robes stripped of all color. The merciless blue sky and bodies festering in heat, the unforgiving red of blood-soaked earth. Grey ash drifting in the breeze, Doctor Alvarez’s eyes too dead for accusation and the guilt and anger muddled and soaked in bile--

“Yeah. It can be.”

And even that feels like confession.

. . .

“Hey, Curie? Do we have any radiation suits?” Veronica asks, bouncing on the balls of her feet. Always feels out of place in Curie’s clinic, no matter how much time they spend at the dinner table.

“No. Do you have a need?” Curie asks, crinkling her nose as she looks up from her journal. Something about hybridization techniques. Makes Veronica wish she’d brought a sample of salient green when she started this long trek, but. Coulda shoulda woulda, can’t rewind time.

“That nuclear power station’s still got a bunch of old barrels, sets my Geiger counter tapping.” Veronica jabs her thumb southwest by means of emphasis, ignoring the fact that it means she’s pointing through Curie’s clinic walls. “I don’t know if the station’s even salvageable, but it’s close enough to town I’d rather haul it farther out. Especially since we still see bloodbugs out there once in a while, so might have another nest.”

Curie taps her pencil against her lip, pink eraser worn down to a nub. “Hm. We have no radiation suits, but there is the old armory. The General and I cleared most of the ghouls from that place, but there are some storage areas which may contain useful equipment. I recommend you take Cait, as she is quite skilled with the locks.”

. . .

“Yeah, Curie’s real good at that,” Cait grunts, checking her shotgun. “Don’t let her clean hands and pretty voice fool you, she knows how to get dirty jobs done. But figure she’s got enough on her plate.” Licks the edge of her teeth, lips pulled back in a grisly Raider smile. “‘Sides, she never shuts up about how filthy everything is when we’re cleanin’ out baddies. At least you don’t do that.”

“And here I thought you liked my snappy remarks and witty repartee!”

Cait snorts. “Don’t push it, Santangelo.” Fastens her combat armor and shakes away Veronica’s offer to help. “Nah, I can get me gear on just fine.” A pause, cinching a buckle. Gaze fixed on what she’s doing. “Thanks anyway.”

The front yard of the training facility’s empty, though Veronica eyes the shadows. A few scattered ghouls over the baked asphalt-- feral and desiccated corpses, no movement-- but doesn’t stop the back of her neck from itching. Gets worse in the empty office hallways, Veronica waiting for a lurch from the crawlspaces or crumbling walls. The fading flags of red, white and blue somehow make everything worse. Colors worn, edges crumbling like everything else they once stood for.

(Taps the compass beneath her shirt, thinks of Enclave ghosts. Some things better left to rest.)

Cait leads through an unlocked gate to an outdoor walkway, then in through the barracks. Air bitter with rust and mineral. Pass out to the training yard again. Veronica eyes the destroyed chassis of a Sentrybot and the empty shells of turrets lining the roof, evidence of previous explorers.

“Yeah, the General and Curie cleared this place out a while ago when they were makin’ it safe for the County Crossing settlement,” Cait says, when Veronica asks. “They did a quick sweep of the place, no real in-depth scavs. If Curie thinks there’s a shot of finding an old suit, I believe her.”

Cait gives the doors a friendly rattle as they pass by the various metal buildings, and Veronica goes in with an eye to parts for useful salvage. Aluminum and fiberglass, plastics and electronics-- when she spots a couple military-grade circuit boards, she packs those with care, while Cait grabs various rifles and pistols. The only trouble comes when they run into a withered feral in the corner of one of the bunkers, which stumbles to its feet as they enter. Between Cait’s shotgun and Veronica’s pistol though, it soon goes down again. Permanently, its head and chest a mess of gore and shattered bone.

“Not even any blood on me boots,” Cait says with satisfaction. Loads her shotgun, humming. Steps around the corpse to fiddle at a cabinet, setting aside her shotgun so she can pick the lock. Takes only a few moments to pop it open, her tongue bitten between her teeth, poking past her lips.

Still no suit, though they’re getting a decent haul of parts and ammo. A half dozen grenades (“Christmas came early this year!” Cait cackles when she picks the explosives box) and two fusion cores, but mostly rifles.

They finally hit the jackpot when Cait spots a stack of metal freight containers in the western portion of the yard, beyond the torn chain link fence. One blue crate has a locked gate, beyond which stands an intact suit of power armor. Cait crouches, taking a little longer this time-- Veronica resists the urge to hover, makes herself stand far enough back her shadow won’t blot Cait’s light. When Cait pops the lock, she sweeps the gate open with an exaggerated flourish.

Veronica crows, pumping her fist and checking the fusion core with shaking hands. “This’ll make hauling those barrels a snap!”

“Got enough juice to walk this tin can out of here?”

Veronica nods, pulling the latch that opens up the back of the suit. Sniffs, crinkling her nose. “Thank god it’s not one of the models with a condom cath. Wouldn’t fancy opening up a 200-year-old urinal.”

“You got a lot of experience with these things?” Innocent question, Cait not even looking at Veronica as she taps a metal greave.

Veronica swallows the lump in her throat. “Worked on a couple before.” Too close to confession, too close to thinking of Arcade in his father’s armor and hours spent in Knight Torres’ armory. Steps up and into the suit before the memories can swallow her up. Lets the metal cage envelop her, servos and gears and becoming an extension of her own muscle and sinew, her own strength amplified.

“Alright. I’m ready to haul those barrels.”

Trade old memories for new, try to replace war-time memories of practically living in her power armor with this stupidly mundane task of shifting rad-soaked barrels out where they’re unlikely to give anyone tumors.

. . .

“Hey, I haven’t seen one of these in _ages_!” Veronica laughs, rubbing her thumb over the Tejada logo on the bottles. Stylized crossed wrenches for the ‘T,’ though simplified from the original design. Gnaws her lip and holds the bottle up to the light, sunlight splashing red through the soda. Hopes it masks the sudden pang at wondering if Christine helped Raul with the redesign.

The trader, Stash, taps a bottle. Fingernail chiming off the glass. “You’re the first person I’ve met who’s seen ‘em before.” Rest of her chems are laid out for inspection, but Veronica’s only interested in the sodas. They make a little rainbow of color, reds and yellows and oranges dancing as the light shines through.

“Yeah, been a while. Didn’t know supplies had come out this far east.”

Stash snorts, setting the bottle down with a clink. “Well, people get awful tired of centuries-old soda. Especially with limited flavors.” Narrows her eyes speculatively. “So, can I count on you for word of mouth?”

Veronica grins and gets to haggling. Holds a soda-sampling party with Cait and Curie that night, passing swigs of Tejada Fresa and Limón, the sweet and tart bursting on her tongue. Giggles at the carbonation up her nose, teasing Curie to stop hoarding all the Toronja as Cait burps strawberry fizz.

(Taps the compass beneath her shirt, thinks how ‘home’ finds her even across the miles.)

. . .

The next trader, Lucas Miller, comes to town bringing a black evening gown with a zippered back and halter straps that would leave the shoulders gloriously bare. It has a glorious satin sheen that brings to mind the nightclub at the Tops, the fizz of champagne and prewar glamor and the rich scent of cigarettes and scotch and cocktails glistening like jewels in the smoky darkness off the stage. Veronica already imagines how it must feel, snug over her hips and flaring halfway down her thigh, all dangerous curves and an elegant expanse of exposed neck.

Veronica hesitates too long, know she already made a rookie’s mistake by lingering. Can’t hide her interest from the shrewd-eyed trader, but manages to trade maintenance and rifle mods instead of digging too far into her saved caps.

“Didn’t figure you for the dressy kind,” Cait says, ankles crossed and leaning against the wall as Veronica twirls in front of the mirror. “Looks nice though. Real classy.”

Veronica pinks, biting the tip of her tongue to keep from giggling. It bubbles up anyways, tickles her nose like Tejada soda. “Well. You like boots, I like dresses.” Thumbs the dangling compass on her neck, and even if pearls would make a better match for this prewar dress, they don’t speak _home_.

Cait ducks her head, tugging the tongue of her boot. “Well. If you like dresses and music, I know a place for you.”

. . .

Walking into Goodneighbor brings back sepia-toned images of Freeside, before the battle-- but where the junkies were burying themselves slowly at the end of a needle, the drifters of Goodneighbor fizz with energy. Neon and grunge, maybe, but infinitely more hopeful. One of the drifters sets up a lonesome twang on a beat-up acoustic guitar.

The ghouls don’t surprise Veronica-- and she spends a few minutes browsing Daisy’s wares as Cait swaps outrageous stories with a small ghoul in a large hat-- but the Assaultron merchant makes her heart thump like it wants to drum its way out of her chest. A distant, horrified part of her wonders how much is genuine love of technology, how much is the Brotherhood still shining through.

“You’re _beautiful_. And your shop’s fantastic! I don’t suppose you have any pneumatic fists?” Veronica blurts. “I’ve never-- I’m so sorry, but I’ve not met any lady robots before.”

“Beautiful and deadly, baby. And each weapon is tested on someone who deserves it.” A lowering of her arms, weight forward and pincers on the desk in a mannerism that _has_ to be imitated from humans because she’s too well-balanced to need any other form of support. “But don’t worry, I only test the weapons on customers I don’t like. And I like you.” Red eye blinks, winking.

When Cait finally rips Veronica away to the Third Rail, Veronica’s hit with ruby sequins and dyed-black hair, cool jazz and a presence that fills the room like smoke and fire. Her eyes glitter brighter than the glistening amber bottles behind the bar, and Cait nudges her elbow in Veronica’s ribs.

“Hey, don’t drool all over me boots.”

The magnificent singer joins them after her set, shakes Veronica’s hand with a cool press of manicured nails and a sly wink.

Even flushed and giddy, Veronica mourns that she never heard Christine sing in her new voice.

. . .

“Present for you!” Veronica sing-songs, pushing the package into Cait’s arms before she has a chance to say no. Right at the kitchen table, before their weekly comic marathon.

Cait blinks, hefts the brown-paper bundle tied together with knotted string. “Why?”

“Early birthday. Late birthday. When is your birthday anyway?”

Cait’s brows knit together. “Fuck if I know. But you know you don’t buy your way to a shag that easy, yeah?”

“No, no!” Veronica exclaims, ears crisping as she struggles for words, hands flapping like birds. “Just-- you took me to Goodneighbor and that was such a _great_ time, so here’s a little something for you.”

Cait’s shoulders relax, the crease gone from her brow as her mental accounts smooth themself even. “Okay, okay. Thank you.” Rips into the brown paper, cursing as her nails scrabble uselessly against the string-- and Veronica supposes she tied the knots too tight, but the bow kept _slipping_ \-- and finally cuts it free with her knife. Lays out the items one by one on the wooden table.

Soft-bristled brush-- a whisper of sound as Cait tests it against her thumb. A textured square of cloth that collapses soft and formless. A small bottle of Abraxo cleaner, chemical smell crinkling Veronica’s nose even with the lid on. And the last item, the one that she was so grateful that Daisy had in stock--

“Neatsfoot oil! I’ve been having such a _shit_ time finding it!” Cait exclaims, and when she grins at Veronica it’s like being punched in the heart, head ringing and colors bursting bright.

“Well, yeah,” Veronica bubbles, blabs. Fingers hooked on the cord around her neck, jittering the compass against her skin. “You like your boots so much, I figured you needed a care kit.”

Cait shoves herself out from the table, chair legs scraping the floor and sweeping Veronica into a bone-crushing hug. Lifts her up, toes dangling and breathless with both compressed lungs and the giddy realization that Veronica’s so close, so close, Cait’s warm-leather and musk and the hint of orange soap that Curie gives her and the way her heart’s thumping against the walls of her chest and she might die a happy woman even if Cait truly does crush her ribs.

. . .

Next week, it’s Cait’s turn to sit Veronica down at the table. Blunt as a sledgehammer, jaw tense and arm angled to show all the ugly tracks of old marks, laddered and catching shadow.

“I like you. You been nothing but straight with me, watched my back and not just me arse, shared when you didn’t have to.” Gaze square on Veronica’s, shoulders tight. Knuckles flat on the table, palms up. “I like you, but my life’s been nothing but one huge failure after another and you deserve it straight.”

So Veronica and Cait sit. Tea grows cold, steam dying in the chill blue night and the overhead lamp casting yellow over Cait’s cheeks.

Cait talks about her parents. The raiders. The slavery. The freedom. The last visit home. The Combat Zone.

Each story clinks down like caps on the table, the worth of a life measured in coin.

“The General cleaned me up, sent me here with Curie. Told me there’s other ways of finding meaning in me life, of helping to make the world less of a shit place. And I’m starting to think maybe she was right, but-- you only seen me at my best here. And you deserve to know the shit I done, the shit I did. Up to you if this is a friendship you want to keep.” Cait pulls her hands back, slumps in her chair. Head still up, hair casting shadows over her eyes.

Veronica bites her lip, shredding a piece of skin. Sips the cold tea, hands shaking and ceramic clicking against the table.

“I-- I should tell you about my family too.”

And each word has a razored weight, slices her throat on the way out. Takes pressure off her gut, guilt coiled like steel rope. Because maybe you can never truly ‘leave’ the Brotherhood when they’ve set hooks in your blood, but you can renounce them.

Veronica skims, pulls piece by piece and ignores the more improbable parts-- wants to tell the raw and beating truth of it, not get lost in any of the ‘shit you not it really happened’ of those wildcard days with Six.

So Veronica talks about her family. The bunker. The Followers. The last goodbye. The long road east.

Each syllable drips like blood on sand, the worth of a life measured in regret.

“I wanted to do better, be better. But I couldn’t do that with the Brotherhood. And-- I’ve heard the Prydwen, I’ve seen their patrols. And I know this makes me look like a deserter, or a spy, but-- I’m just so tired of seeing the world break. And I never meant to lie about where I came from, but--”

“You’re here with us, and that’s what counts,” Cait says. Sets her hand over Veronica’s, callused palm and scarred knuckles.

“And--” because Veronica can’t ignore the tensions, the whispered currents of the Brotherhood line on ghouls and synths and robots, can’t ignore Maxson’s war-hungry words and the growing military might of a Brotherhood that seeks _recruits_ instead of hiding away in a bunker, “they’re not-- they’re not family here. Not anymore.”

The realization’s as much a shock to her as anything else, as if by failing to speak the words she could ignore their truth. Hums electric through her, eyes crackling with unshed tears. Because ‘family’ should be more than names and ranks and faces, it’s remembering who stole whose teddybear at age seven, who was on punishment duty for sneaking a baby molerat into the bunker and who was good for whispered giggles and sneaking illicit comics and tatter-eared novels when the lights were off.

Family is in a pink sweater and grey socks, the compass around her neck and the whiskey flask beneath her bed. Family is in the laugh of recognition whenever she sees a Tejada soda make its way this far east. Family is in the names she carries in her heart, the ones that warm her to the core instead of scooping her out cold.

Veronica pushes forward, suddenly skin-hungry and shivering. Bumps her nose against Cait’s, tilts her head and changes her mind at the last minute. Presses chapped lips to Cait’s cheek instead of her mouth, whispering, “Thank you for listening. Thank you for trusting me.”

Cait drapes her arm around Veronica’s shoulder, presses their foreheads together. As if she can press warmth through, read the unspoken question. “It sets us even, love.” Opens her mouth, tongue pink and petal-soft and Veronica kisses her deep. Kisses color through her skin, kisses her in bursts of red and orange and if life were an old holo there’d be a swell of music with it.

But it’s better, it’s real and tangible and their hearts beat rhythm within their skins. Pulse and answer in timeless melody, elemental call of lips and teeth and tongue.


End file.
